


Can You See

by Kagemihari (soracia)



Category: Prince of Tennis
Genre: Fluff, Get Together, Gift Fic, M/M, POV First Person, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-27
Updated: 2006-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-23 20:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soracia/pseuds/Kagemihari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You asked me silently, what do you see? Can you see what I see? Can you see me? What do you see when you look at me? And this is what I told you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Kagi's notes: actually part one of two, sort of. This part was written for a pic that drew, and then I talked her into drawing another pic if I wrote more fic, so... that part is coming, for the second pic. But this part is the fic in it's entirety as far as the idea I had for the original pic. The style is a bit odd and abstract, kind of experimental, but I liked the way it turned out.
> 
>  _For my Lethy--for her birthday, her pic, and for being the lovely person that she is; and also, for being the only other person in the world who loves this pairing as much as I do._

**Part One - Can You See**

It was just one of those days.

The kind of day when fate, or karma, or some benevolent god randomly shifts the gleaming threads of life and crosses them, an intersecting point of light to create a single, perfect moment out of time.

It didn't start out that way, of course. There was nothing especially fateful about the day when it started-just an ordinary day, a free day, and the only notable thing about it, really, was that I could spend the entire day with you. But that was worth noting, I thought, and it made me smile as I waited for you, early in the morning.

I stood outside your house and watched your window, even though I knew you were already on your way out-but I was thinking about the way the sunrise caught your hair when you leaned out and waved at me, and I hadn't moved yet.

It was nice enough to walk today... chilly, but getting warmer. Bring a jacket, I had said, and you complained that it was going to be hot, later, and you wouldn't want to carry it.

It'll be cold, that early; wear it, I said, and you had frowned and muttered. But you came outside with a jacket on, although it was hanging open. I shook my head and fastened it for you, and you made a face, but didn't argue.

I didn't ask where we were going. I didn't know and you hadn't said, but it didn't matter much; let's go, you said, and you didn't say where-but you knew I didn't care. I wondered, later, how you knew, and if you had known why; but it wasn't important then, or now, and I have never asked.

It grew cloudy as we walked, and you worried that it would rain. So what if it does, I asked, amused, and you thought about that, and smiled. So rare, to see that smile of yours, and it made me smile too-neither of us is the kind that smiles often, but I love it when you do.

For a while we walk in silence, because you are still waking up, but I know that won't last long. I see you blink several times, looking sleepy and content, like a cat whose patch of sunlight has been disturbed. It makes me feel warm inside, and I know where the sunlight has gone. I tilt my head back, looking up to hide the tiny quirk of a smile lurking on my face again.

The sky is definitely clouding up-I think you are right about the rain, but it is warm and the rain will be light, and I don't mind. You will enjoy it, if you aren't thinking that I don't, and I like watching you enjoy things.

Finally you yawn, hunching your shoulders against the chill, and I carefully don't comment on the way you would be cold without your jacket. You start mumbling about it anyway, after a bit, wondering why it can't be hot all day when you know it's summer now and the afternoon sun will be blazing. But it's cool right now, and it isn't fair, you say, that you have to wear a jacket on a summer day.

I listen to you ramble, a rippling murmur that washes over me-the only sound in the quiet, mostly empty streets. It doesn't seem to matter to you if I'm listening or not, and mostly I can't tell if you're talking to yourself or to me, or to the world in general, but I like listening to you talk.

We take the train, not too far, heading out of the city, and you still don't tell me where we are going, except to say mysteriously that you have something to show me. You look happy, if a little uncertain, and I realize that you are not entirely sure I will see what you see when we get there.

I could tell you that if you like it, I know I will-but that goes without saying. So I had guessed, is all I say, dry words with a smile, and you grin suddenly as if I had reassured you.

Comfortable silence falls as you watch the world go by outside the window-you had silently insisted on sitting there, and I let you, with a smirk. Watching your peaceful, contemplative expression is a feeling of content, and I wonder if the world looks different to you than it does to me. I think, somehow, that it does, and I ask you what you see.

You turn that thinking look on me, and then you smile. Trees, you say, and lots of sky. Your smile turns secretive then, and I know you are thinking about where we are going again. I don't ask, although I am curious now, because it still doesn't matter. Anywhere is fine with me, as long as I'm with you.

Almost there, you whisper at last, turning back to me, and that secret smile is dancing in your eyes now-quiet, hidden, easily missed, but I know what to look for. The train slows and stops, and you nudge me, impatient for me to stand and move so you can get out and walk ahead. Silently amused, I get out of your way, thinking how attractive you are with that intent, focused gleam in your eye.

You are muttering again about how slow the train is and whether I am keeping up and some other things I don't quite catch, but I am listening more to the tone of your voice than your words, hearing the undercurrent of happy anticipation.

It occurs to me that what you are happy about is that I am with you, that you are showing me something you think I will like, or hope that I do, and I hope that you are right. You are often right about me, but I will be disappointed with myself if I don't understand what you want me to see. I wonder briefly at the idea that I make you happy-I wonder why, and how, and decide that it doesn't matter why, so long as it is.

I am happy too when I am with you, and I wouldn't be able to explain how, or why you make me feel the way I do-I just know that you do. I like being with you, watching you, listening to you talk; I have never told you this, but I think that you know it.

We wander out on the platform, and you drop your bag-it's your tennis bag, more than you'd need for a trip like this, I would think, but then again it's you and I don't always understand the way your mind works. You drop it and stretch lazily, catlike again, and I hide the brief smile that says I am amused by the comparison.

You are distracting, though, when you do that, and I don't think to ask you which way to go, simply standing watching-the way your back arches and your eyes close briefly, lashes fluttering down to rest dark against your pale skin, the way your shirt and jacket rise teasingly, not quite far enough.

I watch the way I always do, and I wonder, as I've done more often of late, what you would do if I touched you. If I came up behind you and slipped my arms around you, sliding my hands beneath your shirt and touched you the way I want to. I wonder if you would like it...I wonder if you would mind.

I wonder if you know that I want you. Sometimes I think that you do-sometimes I think that you want me to. But I am never sure. Your eyes hide as much as they reveal, and that distant, faraway look you get makes me want to climb inside you and figure you out.

You are looking at the sky again and grumbling about the likelihood of rain, and I don't bother reminding you again that it doesn't matter. You know this, but you want this day to be perfect, and you don't like things you can't control. The day is perfect already though, and rain isn't going to change that.

You don't waste much time on it though, picking up your bag again and looking around for the exit. I see it before you do and start heading that way, knowing you will follow. Still grumbling as you reach my side, you have moved on from rain to the fact that we now have to walk the rest of the way. Since I have no idea how far that might be, I assume this is mostly due to you preferring not spend that kind of effort on anything other than tennis, rather than it actually being that long of a walk.

I quietly interrupt your mumbling to say that I don't mind walking with you, and you actually stop talking for a few minutes, but you look happy. Soon enough you start up again, completely random rambling this time about something which appears to have nothing to do with anything. I wonder absently how you got from here to there in your thoughts...but I am used to not knowing, and it doesn't sound like you are expecting me to know, so I listen partly to what you are saying and mostly just to the sound of your voice, and let you talk.

There are lots of trees here, and I remember you saying what it was that you saw-trees, and lots of sky. Outside the city here, in this patch of nature mostly undisturbed, one can see plenty of both. It's a soothing, relaxing feeling to wander down the road with you, although I still cannot see anything to give me an idea about where we are headed.

The trees are growing larger now, and closer together, and I almost miss the pathway leading in when you stop and look around a bit, before leaving the road and heading for the trees. A trail? Leading where, I wonder; or perhaps this is already the destination, a place to wander through the woods. Remembering the way you complained about walking, somehow, I don't think so. You might enjoy it, another time, but that is not why we are here today.

I follow you anyway, noting that you are now muttering about the fact that this trail is much easier to pass in early spring, when the weather has not been warm for long enough to allow so much undergrowth in the wood itself. Summer is nice, though, you say-you like the heat.

As we walk, you kick a few fallen branches out of your way, then find one that is to your liking and pick it up. You use it as a walking stick for a short time, then settle for using it to strike at passing weeds and brush, and pushing back occasional overhanging leaves to duck beneath them.

Having no stick of my own, I use my hands when necessary to dodge trailing foliage that intrudes itself onto the path, and when you find another branch that suits you, you pick it up and hand it to me. The tiny smirk on your face is wickedly attractive as you say, here-don't say I never gave you anything. That's a buchou stick, you add, nodding as if this were a profound statement, and I look at it, bemused.

It's a straight, sturdy stick, stained dark from lying fallen in various kinds of weather, longer than yours and not as slim and graceful. A good support were I to actually use it for walking rather than your random lashings of the innocent undergrowth along the trail. Hm. Thanks, I answer dryly, shaking my head, but I am smiling again.

The first drops of rain finally begin to filter through the leaves overhead, a soft, rushing whisper accompanied by faint dripping noises. You frown at it for a minute before deciding that you don't mind, after all, your expression smoothing out again as you grow quiet, seemingly listening. Tilting my head back, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, enjoying the fresh, earthy smell of the rain washed woods.

I wonder what it's telling you, that rush of nearly noiseless sound, a not-quite-there murmur that might or might not be as random or as obliquely reticent as your own, speaking mysteries and secrets that are as vague as they are alluring, and I am briefly envious of understanding them. As I am of you, but I have time for that. All the time in the world.

You slow down, gradually, as the path begins to open out, as if you were almost reluctant to come to the end of it, and I wonder again what exactly is waiting there. What do you want me to see? But we are nearly there now, the end in sight around one last bend in the pathway, and you stop when we reach it, just looking. Then you seem to sigh, slightly, and I cannot tell if it is with reluctance or simple appreciation as you move out of the trees into the open space beyond.

Curiously, I follow close behind, suddenly wanting very much to know what we have come to find. You turn and study me as I come out into the clear, your face solemn, an almost wary look in your eyes, and I want to reassure you, but I know it is only that you want me to understand. Your lips part briefly as if you were about to say something, but instead you silently turn away and wait for me to speak.

I see now that the open space is a small, sandy beach, a quiet hidden shoreline that you must have found and made your own. It is peaceful and beautiful, the water stretching out from it in gentle rippling waves, enclosed on either end by the embracing trees. I shake my head, wondering dumbly how you found it, and when-suddenly wishing I had been with you, then, to watch the slow quiet delight spread from your eyes to your lips in that silent, wondering smile you would have had.

A similar expression steals across my own face now, and I turn to find you looking at me with just a shade of apprehension in your eyes. The slow, wide smile I give you feels warm and glowing, as if I were standing in the sun instead of the light rain that is still falling. A secret place, I say, meaning both more and less than the simple words, but I think you will understand.

The slight tension in your body suddenly relaxes, and your eyes light with something that could be relief, if it were not so pleased as to be almost smug. You look around, searchingly, as if finding every little change in the landscape since the last time you were here. It is, you say simply with that faint, almost smile, and to my slight surprise you say nothing more, merely walking forward, lingering, reacquainting yourself with the place; and I think, for some reason, that it has been awhile since you've been here.

I wander after you, slowly, watching you as much as the view around you, liking the way you fit into this quiet place as if it had been made for you. Suddenly I am very glad that you chose to share it with me, that I've seen what you wanted me to see, as if I have met some challenge and surpassed it. But then, you have always been a challenge I could not resist.

There is a hammock swinging forlornly at one end of the beach, and your random feet pause beside it as you run a familiar hand over it, like greeting an old friend. Then you sigh and wander back over to me, dropping your bag, heedless of the damp sand, and look up at the grey midday sky with a sulky expression. Why is it raining, you ask rhetorically, it's not supposed to rain, you say. You sound as if it had personally offended you, and I hide a smile.

It'll stop soon, I assure you, because it's that light sort of summer rain that comes and goes quickly, as if it had never been.

You look thoughtful then, staring out at the water, and then back at me. You tilt your head, considering, and you ask me if I ever went swimming in the rain. A little surprised, I study the ruffled surface of the water-I had never really thought about it. No, I say, do you want to?

You think about it for a minute, eyeing the sky and the water and the rain, and say doubtfully that it might be cold. Not that cold, I assure you. The weather is too warm, even at night, for the water to be that chill, even when it's cloudy.

Thinking some more, you say absently that you always wondered what the ripples on the water looked like from underneath, when the rain was falling. I shake my head-it's not raining hard enough, I say, I don't think you'll be able to tell.

You consider that briefly as you tilt your head. But your mouth has that slightly stubborn cast which means you have found an idea you won't let go of easily. I want to, you answer firmly, and I nod, slightly intrigued myself, though more by your interest in it than the idea itself.

Almost dreamy sounding, you continue, as if you are speaking your thoughts aloud. I like to stay underwater for as long as I can, you murmur to yourself, looking up and pretending I belong down there and it's quiet and warm and I feel light, everything seems too far away to worry about. It's like a different world, and everything looks different through the water-the sunlight filtering through, shapes on the surface, the sky... maybe the rain looks different too. When I'm there, it's silent and perfect, and I don't have to see or think or be anything...just me.

You'd make a good mermaid, I say without thinking, and then I realize how that sounds. So I grin teasingly at you, wondering how you will react, if you will be offended.

A mermaid? you ask, sounding surprised and a little perplexed. But then I'd have a tail... I don't have a tail, you assert, looking down at yourself as if to confirm this. It might be nice, though, if I could live underwater and breath it... never have to come up again where it's cold or windy or...

You continue like this, listing the reasons why you might like it. You like water, any kind of water, and I think that you would indeed be right at home there. But if I was a mermaid, you conclude, I couldn't play tennis, and that would suck; I don't want to be a mermaid. The words are emphatic, as if you had decided something of great importance.

No, that would suck, I agree; and then I hear myself add, you're hot enough just the way you are. I really did not mean to say that. Ah well...I don't think you'll mind, and I act as if it were just a casual statement of fact, hoping that you won't take it...the wrong way, whatever that might be. I wonder if you would be shocked that I think of you this way; but you only grin, as if you had already known it.

Taking off your jacket, you drop it on the sand beside your bag. Let's go swimming, you say, part invitation and part challenge, and I smile wryly. Of course. Even if I should ever want to, I could never say no to you. You are already in swim trunks under your clothes, and I smile again and shake my head. You've been planning this for awhile. I change quickly in the nearby trees, and follow you into the rainy water.

The sea is warm, but cloudy, mirroring the sky...more grey and green than blue today, at least from underneath. You duck under and true to your word, stay down for a long time before you reappear, breathless, throwing your head back and taking a deep lungful of air before shooting a look at me, a sharp grin lighting up your face. Rain streams down over your already wet hair and skin, making you look truly like you were made for this world.

If I'm a mermaid, you wonder aloud, then who are you...

I smirk, and reply briefly that I am the prince who wishes you were human, so I could make you mine. You give me an odd look, and for a minute I think I have dared too much; then you answer seriously, I would turn human for you.

I give you a slow smile that feels entirely too warm, and wonder if the heat on my face is showing. Probably not, in the gray sort of light today, but I wonder. I rarely blush, even slightly, but I keep saying things I don't mean to say, around you.

You smirk then, and splash water at me, tackling me under while I am trying to clear my vision. We wrestle under the water for a minute, trying to hold each other down, until we have to come up for air. With that teasing grin you explain that maybe I should just become a mermaid too. That is a much less attractive mental image, I think, and I say so.

You tilt your head, considering that as you study me, and I have no idea what you see, but apparently it amuses you; a smile flits across your mouth and settles in your eyes, and you nod, briefly. You wouldn't make a very good mermaid, you announce thoughtfully. You decide that maybe _you_ would, since I said you would so probably you would because I think so. But, you tell me, not you-you would be my handsome prince.

You shoot me a look from the corner of your eye as if to judge my reaction, a faint, sly smile touching your face; and I nod, gravely, as if this whole discussion made perfect sense, as if it didn't make my heart trip to hear you say that. So we can both play tennis, I conclude, not quite a question, and you grin.

Exactly, you answer-but we both know this conversation is not about tennis. Good then, I say, come out of the water, mermaid-I am hungry.

You sniff as if you were offended, but your eyes are shining again, with amusement and something else I don't quite dare put a name to. We make our way back to the shore, not without several more interruptions by way of dunking or splashing, and sit on the sand to eat the lunch we brought.

We don't talk, sitting side by side and looking out at the water, but I catch you giving me sideways glances with a tiny, secret smile. I can't help the slight quirk of my lips in response, and my fair share of looks in your direction. Unlike the empty sea, you are fascinating to me.

It does stop raining very soon, and the sun burns quickly through the remaining light clouds with fierce efficiency by the time we are finished eating. You stretch out and lean back on your hands, face upturned and eyes nearly closed, still smiling. I think again how much I would like to kiss that smile of yours, but I sit still, silently watching until you open your eyes again and stare out over the water. Your expression is distant now, and I wonder what you see, what you are thinking about.

You sigh then, and seem to remember that I am there, giving me judicious look that I cannot interpret. Again that faint amusement flickers in your eyes, and you stand smoothly, reaching down to pull me to my feet. Come on, you say, if you are my prince, we must build you a castle. I blink and raise an eyebrow, asking what you mean.

Sand castles, you inform me, as if really I should know that. I suppose I should. That's what people do at the beach, you say, and I have to admit this is true; but it has been a very long time since I have done so.

Don't worry, I'll teach you, is your reply, and I am amused by the tolerant seriousness of your tone, as if it were a matter of great importance that I know how to make sand castles properly.

You find a place that suits you, where the sand is not too dry nor too near the water, and draw some lines in the sand to mark off where you are building. I copy your movements as you begin to shape the walls, surprised and intrigued by the amount of detail you have decided to put into this-inside walls and outside, with rooms and staircases and turrets.

Your hands are quick and deft, the motions of much practice and long familiarity-this is something you enjoy a great deal, and the tone of your voice is pleased and content as you show me what to do, getting sidetracked often by your explanations of what each room is and the people who live in it.

It occurs to me to wonder, after some time, that you have thought about this before. Possibly a lot, with the amount of detail you are giving me. I wonder when, and why, and if it is the same reason that you knew I was not going to ask what you where we were going. Or perhaps you are making it up as you go along, but either way, you are putting a great deal of thought into it.

I am distracted as I watch you and think about this, helping you but not trying very hard, being more interested in watching the way your expression changes as you talk and your strong, slender hands as they shape the sand. After the third time I accidentally damage part of your construction, you get exasperated and tell me I am no good at this, and to sit still and let you do it.

I smirk silently and move back a little, letting you work as I sit beside you, hands clasped around an upraised knee as I watch you to my heart's content. You look up a few times with a faint question, almost uncertainty in your gaze as you feel my eyes on you, but I am simply watching; I can feel that warm content in my expression again. You seem to shrug then, your shadow smile hovering briefly as you continue building, still rambling quietly, half to me and half to yourself about the castle and it's inhabitants.

It's quite an elaborate masterpiece for a spur of the moment idea, and for having no tools to work with other than your own hands. Rooms, corridors, more than one story... a tower and a gate. And of course, a moat. Every castle must have a moat, you say, and perhaps this is some unwritten law of sand castles; but I suspect it is merely that you are going to enjoy flooding it with water when you are done.

I have no idea how long it is that I spend sitting there, watching you as you remain focused, determined. It's damn attractive, that focus you turn on things that you care about-one of the reasons I love playing against you is to see that gleam of fierce intensity turned in my direction.

I keep my arms wrapped tightly around my knee so that I don't give in to the temptation to reach out and touch you-your hair, to brush it back out of your eyes, your quick clever fingers that I want to twine with my own, the tiny frown of concentration you get that is far too kissable.

It seems somehow sharper than usual today, the ache of not touching you, and it's starting to get to me. I carefully don't think too hard about how much I want to, but you keep drawing my attention with the gracefully attractive lines of your body as you bend over your work, which is truly a work of art-though, I think wryly, no less so than yourself.

I get up once in an effort to distract myself, and go to find two bottles of water among our things. You nod rather absently in thanks, and proceed to ignore it after taking just one drink. Amused, I drink my own and wait for you to finish-you are almost done now, and it's midafternoon.

Finally you look up at me and that rare, true smile steals across your face. So, what do you think, you ask, and I shake my head and smile back. It's magnificent, I say, and it is. I feel oddly as if I should be thanking you, for all that it's a fairytale, this castle by the sea. But you made it for me, and I know that more went into it than fantasy and dreams. You've put too much care and effort into it for it not to be somehow personal, for you, and for me; and I am not quite sure if I can believe what that might mean, for us.

A tingle ripples down my spine as I consider that, and I shiver slightly. There is something about this day that feels set apart-isolated here from all the things that usually keep us focused on the world around us. You brought me here to see this-your secret place, your world, and now, there is only you.

Somehow it doesn't matter today that I don't really know what you want; that your teasing words and the looks I've seen you giving me could mean anything, or nothing at all. Today more than ever, I am convinced that maybe, just maybe, they could mean everything, too; but I don't need to ask. Words aren't necessary, right here, right now, and we are both silent for a moment, gazes mingling and both of us smiling faintly because we know, for the moment, everything we need to, and we have time to discover exactly what that means.

You are grinning then, mischief in your eyes, and the stillness doesn't break so much as it shimmers and fades when you look around, seeing how late it is. You ask me if I really sat here all this time and just watched you, but you don't seem to be expecting an answer, as you go on to grumble and mutter at the sun which refuses to stand still for you. But you look pleased, still, and I know that you don't really care how long it has been.

I follow more slowly as you get up and stretch, and head back toward the water, now flat and calm and infinitely blue like the deep darkness of your eyes. Are you coming, you call back to me, and I nod, deciding not to mention the fact that I am watching you again. I can never resist for long the lure of your presence, anyway; even to keep looking at the picture you make, standing on the shore alone, framed by the sand and water and sky. It remains in my memory, graven alongside a thousand other images of you that I look at, perhaps, far too often.

The water is pleasantly warm now, soothing your muscles which are stiff from having spent too long in one position. You float on your back and watch the sky, and wonder aloud about the mystery of the sky being blue and some other random things that I am not really paying attention to. I lay beside you, floating too and not quite touching, listening to the way your voice is muted slightly by the water, and vaguely taking note of the rippling, slightly echoey effect the liquid distortion has on the sound.

It's a calm, peaceful feeling, suspended here with you between earth and sky-neither grounded nor flying, yet somehow with a sense of both, supported gently by the cradling waves that lap around us. I lose track of time again, and don't really care, being perfectly content to simply listen to the sound of your voice talking about anything and everything under the sun.

The sun which is, indeed, still hot and bright overhead, slanting toward evening but not yet really far enough to cool from it's earlier fierce heat. It makes its way into my bones, heating me from within the way your eyes do, when they get that certain intent glint which makes me want to take you and own you; to learn you inside out by touch and taste and soul until I know exactly how it feels to have that bright quicksilver focused entirely on me, flooding my senses with sharp, cool fire like the blade of a knife. Until I can make it a part of me so deeply, that I can feel it even when you are not there.

I close my eyes, pushing aside the restlessness of these thoughts and let the heat soak in, wishing that I could drown in you as easily as this water. But then I think, perhaps, that I already have.

After awhile, we turn and swim lazily back to shore, and you are mumbling between strokes about how we should race and you could probably beat me, but you are feeling too lazy to race right now, so we're not, but if we did you bet you would win so we should try it sometime. I agree with you in some amusement that we should try it, and privately to myself that you are probably right about winning, too, but there's no reason you need to know that.

As we wade the last few metres in to shore, I try not to think about how this day is going to be over soon, how short it's been, how _not enough_ it is. It's just a day, just one day, an ordinary day-but it's you that makes it amazing. I have spent the entire day with you, and it only makes me think how much I wish we could do this every day. Not this, specifically, necessarily; but to see you and listen to you and be with you from morning to night. All day, every day.

I decide to make the most of the hours we have left, remembering everything as if I were taking snapshots in my memory-the trees, the shoreline, the water and the sky stretching out to infinity; and you in the middle of it all as if you were part of it, as if to say, do you see? Do you see what I see?

I want to say, I see you. I do. I see what you see.

I am hanging back again to watch you, and you wander over to the worn hammock and smile slightly-I wonder again about the time you have spent here before, when and why and for how long...it seems an ideal place to camp, and the hammock appears to have been well used. But that could be simply from having been, as it obviously was, left out in the elements for months or years. You are still feeling lazy, comfortably worn out, and you sprawl bonelessly into the curving net and let your eyes fall half-closed.

Again it strikes me how much you look like a sleepy cat in the sun, and the corner of my mouth twitches as I hide a grin. For some reason I love this image of you, although you might not find it so appealing. Then again, knowing you, you will love it and insist on deciding what kind of creature I represent, as well. I am, in fact, curious as to what you might come up with; perhaps I will ask you sometime.

I stand for a moment at the water's edge and look out at that endless sea, and I wonder as I have before...having seen you, and seeing what you see...can I ask, can I believe, what you see when you look at me? But now...now I see that I already know the answer.

Here and now I am caught by the sense, the awareness that this answer is that by which my life will be defined. And the question is that which my heart stopped needing long ago. I realize that I've been watching, waiting, wondering; but it's already been decided. Here, in this moment, I don't have to wonder. I know.

I believe that you make your own destiny; that each person can do whatever they dare or dream they can. I've never believed in fate or any god-but I do now.

I feel now that sense of awe which comes only with the touch of a higher power, that wonder of something greater than yourself guiding the steps you take. The grateful sense of knowing that you stand at the crossroads of what is and what is meant to be, and that what is meant to be, will be. You can't miss it.

I remember suddenly that I may never have believed in fate, but I've always believed in you.

I turn and see you sitting there, stretched out and soaking up the sun, the invitation in your smile, and it suddenly hits me that this, this is the moment. A moment I've been waiting for without even knowing it, waiting all my life, but this is it. I stand there in a blinding moment of clarity, not breathing, and I know before I move what will happen.

You will look up as I come closer, lazy and almost smiling as my shadow falls across you, and your eyes will be those mysterious depths that always draw me in. I'll move without really thinking, pulled closer by the magnetism of your gaze, kneeling, leaning forward, and it will be like gravity, like fate, that instant when your lips touch mine. And we will never afterward remember which of us closed that last distance, because it will be a single perfect moment where that is, suddenly and surely, the only thing that can happen.

I won't be able to close my eyes, won't be able stop watching the way your own gaze darkens and your eyelids flutter shut-I will want to remember and know everything about this one point of intersection that changes everything. The place in time where our parallelled threads of story will twine together in a single unbroken strand; stronger together, now and always.

From that point on, we'll know that we belong together, that nothing will ever again be as important to me as you. And the silence in between us, the words that we don't say, will say more clearly than any words could tell that I'm yours, and you are mine, forever. And even though this truth we know will only have begun, it will be, somehow, as if we've always known it.

And it will never matter, later, what led us to this point--the beginning is everything, the future is now, and this is all the matters.


	2. See the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex on the beach, and other random things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: A sequel of sorts but more like the second part of Can You See, which was meant to stand alone (and does) but this part won't make much sense if you haven't read that. Birthday fic for Lethanon, only a day late this year. ♥

  
**Part Two - See The Light**

I knew that it would be this way. Just the way I saw it. A moment of clarity, a moment of truth, an inevitable conclusion. That single flawless point in time, something inside me saying yes, this is it. This is what I've been waiting for... for I had been waiting, waiting a long time, without ever quite knowing why.

I move forward, drawn to you, drawn irresistibly by the look in your eyes, the smile that says, I want. Leaning closer, transfixed by your gaze, I don't even know which of us moved, or maybe if we both did. It's natural and necessary as breathing, the way your lips meet mine, the way your eyes slide shut, slowly, like gravity taking over the way you lean forward--giving, wanting, and I can't take my eyes off you, the way you look right now.

That moment, that single, shining moment seems to last an eternity, things I never knew were missing falling into place, like fate. Like it was meant to be. Something as irreversible and inescapable as the law of gravity.

I pull back at last, feeling dizzy from not breathing; or maybe just from that dazed, blissful look in your eyes.

"Can we stay here tonight?" you ask, sounding wistful; but something tells me that you know I would never say no. Still, it will be cold again after dark, and I hesitate, looking around. Not a comfortable place to sleep--but then, we both know that if we stay, it is not very likely we will sleep much, if at all.

You laugh softly and stretch, and tumble out of the hammock, padding over to where you left your bag with our change of clothing. A sly smile crosses your face as you open it, taking out a blanket, and I stare and shake my head.

"Came prepared, did you?" I ask wryly, wondering just how much of this you had had in mind.

"Always, buchou," you smirk, and there is no way it should be that sexy. You throw the blanket in my direction, and it unfolds as I catch the edge of it, falling down to drag light tracks on the sand as I walk over to a smooth place above the tide line, and shake it out.

You are snickering, still pleased with yourself, when you come over to join me, and I catch you as you walk by and kiss you like I mean it. I find it hard to believe this is happening, so fast, so right, so real, but I know beyond a doubt that this is not a dream...not this time. It's true.

It's too fast, and yet not fast enough... I want more, everything, now. I want you. Your skin is smooth and subtly warm beneath my hands, not heated, not yet, and still it burns me where I touch you. Or maybe that is only my hands, burning with the thrill of finally touching you the way I've always wanted to.

I tumble you down on the blanket and stretch out beside you, half on top of you, listening to your laughter--have I ever heard that sound before?--and enjoying the feeling of skin against skin. Neither of us is wearing anything but swim trunks yet, and it is so nearly exactly what I want that it leaves me aching, wanting just that little bit more, pressing against you and twining our legs together as I kiss you again, hard and hungry and fierce. You know how much I want you now, or maybe you always did, but it doesn't matter anymore when you figured it out. All that matters is you know, and you want this too. You want me.

I shudder lightly as your fingertips trace lines of silver fire on my skin--across my shoulders, down my back and up again to tangle in my hair. It feels so good, your fingers in my hair, and I wish briefly that it was longer, still, that you had more to play with.

You are gasping when I release your mouth, struggling to breathe again, but your eyes are shining.

"Are you hungry?" you ask, breathless but teasing now, and I growl the obvious answer.

"Yes."

You snicker softly again and kiss the corner of my mouth, lightly, not enough to satisfy this need I have to feel and taste and explore. "Not that," you say, rolling your eyes, as if you hadn't known that I would think that. "We have food, you know. And it's getting late, but it's not dark yet, so we should eat something before it gets too late."

I roll off you and sit up, reluctantly, muttering, and you are smirking again when I give you a dark look. I could care less about food right now, but I suppose that you are right. I think, however, that you are just enjoying teasing me, and whether or not you actually want to eat is far beside the point.

Still, I humor you, going over with you to find the remains of the food we brought, not at all surprised now to see that you brought more than I would have thought we needed. You planned this very, very well, and I watch with resigned amusement as you busy yourself finding sandwiches and drinks and snacks.

"Dessert of sorts," you say, a faint gleam of something in your eyes that makes me wary--there, packed in ice to keep them cold, popsicles...just the thing for summer and the beach, and yet. I stare at you, not without admiration, and decide that you have the most evil mind ever created, because I know you did that on purpose.

I sit there and try not to watch you licking it, your tongue flicking out to catch melting bits and it gradually stains your mouth red. You look faintly amused when you catch me trying and failing not to look, and I wryly turn my attention to my own, which is now dripping on my hand. I smirk, just a little bit--two can play this game.

I lick my hand slowly, tracing the drip up the side of my popsicle to the tip, and pretend I am not watching you out of the corner of my eye for your reaction. Your eyes widen and then you stare openly as I take another broad lick up the side. Yeah, like that.

You catch me smirking then and your eyes narrow, then take on that familiar glint of challenge. What amazes me the most is how little time it takes you. Lick, suck, swirl, up and down and around, your tongue curling lasciviously and turning bright red and I try to keep up with you at first, licking and sucking and swallowing deep around cold ice which is somehow impossibly hot, but I soon slow and eventually forget about it as you keep your eyes fixed on me, growing darker and lids drooping as you turn that amazing concentration on _giving your popsicle a blow job_ in less than three minutes flat.

I'm not smirking at all any more, just watching hungrily as your tongue darts and flickers and _curls_ , teasingly, and when I start to growl your eyes gleam wickedly as you swallow the whole thing once again, deep and sucking hard and a minute later you pull the stick free and start _licking it clean_ and oh, jesus, that is hot. You are unbelievably hot like this, seductive and knowing and my skin is burning, body aching with need and want and hard, so impossibly hard, afraid even to touch myself because I've wanted this too badly for too long and I don't want to come without even touching you.

You drop the naked stick, letting it fall from the carelessly sexy curve of your fingers and smile at me, a slow, dark curl of your lips as you move closer and reach for my hand, dripping bright red from the forgotten melting ice I am holding. You bring it to your mouth as I watch, entranced and unable to move, for the moment, breathless and needing for some reason to see what you will do next.

You wrap your lips around it and suck it down slowly, bright red stained lips closing around the cold shaft of half melted slush and slurp, sucking until a shiver ripples up my arm and then you smile, white teeth flashing as you pull back and bite down, taking the soft top clean off and that in no way should be hot, but it is.

Then you pull the sticky mess out of my hand and toss it away, and I don't even think to protest because you are leaning down again, licking my _hand_ this time--licking it clean and I moan quietly as your tongue swipes down and across my palm and up between my fingers, sucking each one clean. I hold my breath with the effort of keeping still as you move on, broad swipe over the back of my hand and down and around my wrist--and then you let go, sitting back and smirking like hell.

I move suddenly then, lunging forward and tackling you back onto the suddenly incongruous softness of the blanket, but the sand is still firm and hard beneath it and I press you down into it, my mouth on yours hard and desperate and hungry because you made me want this and you know it.

I kiss my way down your throat in a hurried, wet trail of sloppy kisses, sucking briefly but not hard until I reach the point where your shoulder begins and sink my teeth in, sucking fiercely until I am rewarded with a low, throaty moan and the beginnings of a bruise. I lick the mark that is forming, not apologetic but tasting, owning you and you are still giving me that dark, satisfied smile which makes me suddenly almost angry; but it is the bright, sharp, almost joyful anger that I usually associate with a damn good game of tennis, the edge that means I have found a challenge and intend to conquer it.

"What are you waiting for?" Your voice against my ear, soft and dark and mysterious like the rest of you and I can't think clearly enough to answer, can't think of anything but that I want in, want to take you and learn you and know you by heart, to pierce that dark mystery and make you burn for me the way I burn for you. Judging by your hardness rubbing against my own as I grind against you, pressing you deeper into the sand, that isn't really going to be a problem.

The growl that has been building, rumbling in my chest breaks free and I turn my head to capture your mouth again, a searing hot kiss that swallows me whole as your body moves against me, sheathing me in fire that takes me over the edge with one more quick thrust against you, and I don't even have time to be disappointed that we didn't make it all the way because you are coming too, gasping into my mouth what might be my name if I didn't still have my tongue down your throat.

We collapse afterward, breathing hard and heedless of the mess for the moment, arms wrapped tightly around each other and legs intertwined, and I think distantly that if I had known it was going to be like this, this _good_ , even better than I imagined, better than all my fantasies and daydreams, I could never have waited this long.

"God, you're so hot," I whisper at last, my voice rough and husky as if I've been screaming, or having sex, or possibly both and the enormity of it hits me suddenly--we just had sex, and I am never letting you even think of doing this with anyone else, ever, because you are mine, and only mine. I have to kiss you again, slower but deep and possessive and just as hot.

"Mine," I tell you, just to make sure you've got it, and your lips are still red but not at all cold anymore, swollen from kissing and you are breathless but you roll your eyes at me anyway.

"Of course," you say, as if that should be obvious, and it is, but it's still amazing and incredible and for a minute I just lay there with you in my arms, looking down and you and I can't believe it, here and now and mine and I have everything I ever wanted and it's more than I ever could have dreamed of.

You kiss my jaw, a soft, brief touch like reassurance, which I think dumbly that I shouldn't need, but apparently maybe I do, because something eases inside of me, uncurling and relaxing into the knowledge that yes, this is real and you're mine and it doesn't matter that it was over so fast and so heatedly because we have all night, and many nights after. Always. I sigh, a slight release of tension, and settle over you, laying my head on your shoulder, which you allow for about thirty seconds before you are pushing at me, rolling me over and off of you with an affectionate hand.

"Get off," you mumble, "you're heavy and that's nice and I really like it but you just made a mess, and right after I cleaned you off too, now I'll have to do it again..." and you sit up, making my limp cock twitch with interest in spite of itself at the idea of you 'cleaning me off' the way you did to my hand, but you are moving over to your bag again and finding napkins. It is weirdly mundane at this stage but also amusingly normal, and I let you clean us both off and stow the dirty napkins away in a plastic bag that you pulled out from somewhere, content because you come back immediately and lie next to me, settling back into the curve of my arm and pressing yourself against me where you fit so incredibly, perfectly right.

"Mmm," you murmur, a soft, wordless sound of happiness as you lick briefly at my throat and nestle your head there, and I am caught by a flash of ridiculous gladness that I did that, put that sound in your voice and that soft, happy, sated look in your eyes. God, you're beautiful and amazing and fucking glowing at me; I hold you close and kiss your hair and swallow past the sudden tightness in my throat, aware of the opposite but equally powerful side of my feelings for you, the intense need to hold and protect and keep you close and safe and always, always happy like that.

We lay there until the sun is really disappearing from the sky, it's truly dusk and going to start getting cooler, and I stir and look around and wonder if there is enough driftwood for a fire. There is, and we have fun seeing who can find the best pieces soonest, wandering around the small beach still naked, picking up bits and pieces of wood and bringing them back to pile in the sand between the blanket and the sea, but not too close to the water line.

It's another contest, another game and you win easily because you know this place, it's part of you and beautiful the way you are, and because I keep stopping to watch you bend and move, graceful here with your armful of driftwood as you are on a tennis court with a racket. I am never going to be able to watch you play tennis again without getting turned on--not that that is much different from the last few months, anyway--but now I have vivid sense memories of exactly how you look and feel and I have a feeling that it's going to be rather more difficult than it was before.

I don't mind, and I keep watching you, not even answering your smirk when we are done except to drag you into my arms and kiss you firmly, thrilling with the way you melt into me and kiss back as if you are as hungry for it as I am. I'm never going to get tired of this, tasting the hot sweetness of your mouth and knowing that you belong to me, that I can do this anytime I want to, which I am sure is going to be rather often.

We settle on the blanket in front of the small fire, more or less entangled as I sprawl, leaning on one elbow and you drape yourself across me, leaning on my side. It's comfortable and the air is still warm, especially by the fire, so the blanket for now stays flat beneath us. We spend more time looking at each other than at the fire or the world around us in the last shadowed bits of dusk, talking quietly but not a lot; as usual, it is more like you talk and I listen, but even your voice is a slow and intermittent drawl, mumbled scraps of conversation as things come to your mind.

Eventually we do look around as it gets darker and the stars come out, and we can trace the constellations, marking out our favorites--mine, the hunter, Orion, and yours, practically all of them. You don't have a favorite, you insist, they're all your favorites, and I am wryly amused. I should have known that you would love them all. We find and name all the ones we can remember, and then make up a few of our own. It does not surprise me to learn that you are quite good at this, inventive and creative with the pictures you draw in points of light.

After a while the moon rises, full and white, and you fall silent as your gaze is drawn there, meditative, but whether or not it is the moon you see, I don't know. I am content not to ask, merely watching the slowly changing expression on your face, the light reflected in your eyes. It suits you, making me ache suddenly with the image of you, still and perfect and washed in moonlight, with that distant expression that makes you seem sometimes not of this world. Beautiful. An ache not of loss or even of longing, but sheer wonder at the beauty of you in your element, evoking feelings too big for me to contain.

You hear my breath catch, perhaps, or you've simply come to the end of your thoughts, but you turn then and smile faintly, meeting my eyes again and you are suddenly here again and solid and real, mine.

"It's pretty, isn't it?" you say, and for a single disoriented moment I forget that you are not talking about yourself, the image that I have just seen and marveled at. You mean the quiet night, the moonlit sea, or the moon itself most likely, and I nod, agreeing with you. I feel a bit silly, talking about this, daring to admit aloud the fanciful thoughts in my head, but it's you, and if anyone, you will understand, so after a moment's silence, I answer in a quiet undertone that sound like I am sharing a secret, and perhaps I am.

"It's you," I tell you, and you look briefly puzzled, as I look up and follow your gaze to the moon. It's you. You're like the moon, the full moon large and bright, filling up the night, the darkness with silver radiance, blazing white. Incandescent light. That's what you are to me.

There's a moment's silence and then you laugh, soft laughter that flutters featherlike on my skin. "Am I?" you murmur, shaking your head, but you look oddly pleased and I think you are blushing, though it is hard to tell. You sit up with a half smile lingering on your face, and grab one of the leftover sticks of driftwood, leaning over to poke at the fire with it.

I watch you for maybe half a minute, the slight smile fading into a look of oddly endearing concentration as you rearrange the fire to your satisfaction, shadows of flames flickering on your face in the darkness. Before long, though, I can't remain where I am, just watching when I can touch, and I move to lean up behind you, resting my chin on your shoulder and slipping an arm around your waist. You make a soft pleased sound in your throat and lean back against me, tilting your head back to brush a kiss on my temple.

"That's you," you whisper in my ear, the light touch of your lips making me shiver. It distracts me from asking what you mean or giving you a questioning look of my own. I can feel you smiling, though I couldn't say how, and I know exactly what that look of dark amusement in your eyes would look like if I could see it. You kiss my cheek briefly and settle back against me with a quiet noise of satisfaction. "Fire in the night," you murmur, as if to yourself, and I hide my smile in your hair, kissing your bare shoulder. Ah, I should have known.

Different kinds of darkness lit with different kinds of light. The same, and yet not, but perfect for each other.

We sit like that in silence for what seems like a long time, your head on my shoulder and my arm around you as we both watch the dancing red-orange light snapping and cracking against the night. It's warm, a strangely sensual feeling of heat radiating onto bare skin from where we sit. The silence is warm too, peaceful and comforting, as if the things which need to be said have been said, and other things simply don't need saying.

We have all the time in the world.

This feeling of peace, restfulness, of pure and quiet fullness is amazing and yet, not at all a surprise. It's always been like this with you, or at least, I have always known that it would be. The sense that we just fit, a silent, perfect melting into you that began the moment I saw you.

I pull you closer, wrapping strong arms more tightly around you, pulling you into my lap as if I could surround you. You allow this, unresisting, for about half a minute before you decide that it's too awkward, tilting your face up for a kiss that you can't quite reach. Impatiently you struggle free, pushing at my hands and turning, straddling me and putting your arms around my neck, pulling me down and I have to agree that kissing is much easier this way.

So...much...better... I start to forget where I am again, getting lost in the concentrated heat of your mouth when you draw back, looking smug, and I have just time enough to wonder if that gleam in your eye means you are up to something when you shift closer, rubbing against me and making me catch my breath with sudden spiking desire tightening inside me.

You laugh again, a low intoxicating sound, and my hands spread themselves across your lower back, pressing you closer, not that you need any encouragement as you rock against me almost teasingly.

"You're a damn tease," I mutter, a half hearted grumble, and you smirk.

"No I'm not."

I blink, wondering if that means what I think it means, but apparently it does, and I let go with extreme reluctance as you pull away, getting up to retrieve something from your bag and coming back to kneel beside me. I let loose a startled breath of laughter as you hand it to me--a small tube of lubricant, and I just stare at you.

"You planned this?" I finally ask you, because I've suspected it all day, but you planned everything, even this, and it's the last thing I was expecting when we left this morning. That incredible sound of your laughter echoes again in the night, soft and seductive as I pull you back down, rolling over to pin you to the blanket. I kiss you hard, unable to put words to the feeling; I am speechless and amazed. How long have you been wanting this as much as I do?

"You're too slow," you tell me, and I give you a wry look. Obviously. I was trying to be patient, I didn't think you were ready, but apparently I shouldn't have worried.

I let go, letting myself fall into the moment, my hesitation gone as I cover you with kisses and soft, heated touches. You're mine now, really truly mine, and I can do this now, can touch you the way I've always wanted to. You are unbelievably sexy with your dark hair spilled out on the ground like a patch of midnight, firelight flickering over your pale skin. Still smirking, and I growl softly as I capture your mouth again, demanding entrance with my tongue and kissing you until you are breathless, and no longer smirking but wide-eyed and expectant.

It's the most natural thing in the world, the most right thing I've ever felt, being here with you, feeling your strong slim body underneath me, your hands brushing fire everywhere they touch. This is what I wanted, this is where I belong, this is who I belong to. Always forever you.

It's simple and easy and perfect, the way we fit together, moving together in silence and heat and darkness. Not complete silence, I can hear your breath, feel it ghosting over my skin and I shudder, my gasp mixing with soft moans and murmurs, sounds of pleasure and perfection. No need for words, for discussion or explanation or affirmation--just quiet appreciative murmurs and soft wordless cries.

We don't really need to be quiet, we're alone here and there's no one else for miles, but it seems to suit the moment. Quiet and darkness, moonlight and fire in the night. I am going up in flames, the ambient fire aiding the illusion of literally melting into you as this feeling of ecstasy overwhelms us, lifting us higher and higher until we fall together. I feel so full of you, even though I am the one inside of you, it seems like you have filled my soul with everything you are--everything I've ever wanted, and things I've never known I could want. All of it is you.

We lay quietly then, still entangled, wrapped around each other, though I have moved off of you and slightly to one side, just far enough not to crush you. I can hear your heartbeat, still too fast, sounding in my ear as I rest my head on your chest.

After a few minutes you reach a lazy hand to grab a corner of the blanket, cleaning us off and I smile slightly. You like to accuse me of being too concerned about neatness, but you are the one who insists on being clean.

Neither of us feel like moving for the moment, though, so the quiet stretches out, a peaceful lethargy, slightly drowsy, though neither of us is quite ready to sleep yet. The fire still snaps and crackles behind us, casting a warm glow over the fading heat between us. It seems a long time that we lay there, relaxing against each other, and maybe it is... I have no idea what time it is, but it must be the middle of the night by now.

You stir finally, pushing me over on my back and leaning down to kiss me, your hair falling like a curtain around us, making you look even more mysterious than usual as you pull back with a faint smile. I'm so hopelessly lost in you. You're addictive, beautiful and fascinating, dark and light in a perfect balance.

I can't help but follow when you get up, stretching in a lazy way, and take my hand, pulling me toward the sea.

"Come on," you whisper, a thread of sound in the night. "Let's swim."

It doesn't occur to me to protest, to point out that the water must be cooler now than it was earlier, that perhaps night swimming is not the best idea. Like all of your ideas, it sounds irresistible to me.

Swimming in the moonlight, which is almost as romantic as it sounds--I hardly notice how chill the water is as you splash me, smirking, and lead the way into deeper water. I follow you as if I can't help but chase your lithe form into the glittering sea, catching you finally and stealing a kiss before you laugh, that low throaty laughter that I have never heard before today, and push me under.

It's a magical thing, this day outside of time, a seemingly endless sea in the seemingly endless night, and it could be minutes or hours that we play, letting the sea surround us as we enjoy the spell of night and water and light.

Perhaps it is not so long, though, for eventually we notice the chill and head back to land, swimming side by side. I take your hand as we walk back up onto the sand, linking our fingers and sighing in contentment as I lead you back to the warmth of the fire. I've never felt like this before, but I want it to last forever.

We settle onto the blanket again, and I pull it up around us, wrapping you up in my arms beneath it as we sit in front of the slowly dying fire. I feel whole for what may be the first time in my life, here with you. This is perfection.

"Do you really think I look like a mermaid?" you ask randomly, sounding curious.

I am slightly surprised by this return to an earlier topic, but I'm well used to the random way your mind works, so I answer without comment.

"Not exactly, but you could. You look like the sea." You are absolutely the only person I could say things like this to, things that are half there or half imagined, and know that you will understand.

You look like you are thinking about this, and then you say, "But you said I was the moon, so I must look like the moon too. Do you believe in unicorns?"

I stare at you for a minute before my laughter comes rumbling out, and I nuzzle your hair before I answer. "You look like the moon, too," I agree. "What have unicorns got to do with anything?"

"Unicorns are made of moonlight," you tell me seriously, looking a bit sulky at my laughter. "So if I look like the moon maybe I look like a unicorn too, only that would be weird because unicorns look like horses and I don't think I look like a horse, but I just wanted to know if you thought that."

I chuckle again and kiss your temple. "No, you don't, but you could be made of moonlight for all I know. I wouldn't be surprised."

You smile, tilting your head back against my shoulder as you look up at the moon. "So you do believe in unicorns," you insist, not quite a question.

"I believe in you," I tell you firmly, and apparently that was the right answer, because you smile again and settle back against me.

"I believe in you too," you whisper, as if it were a secret.

It leaves me silent for a moment, a sudden surge of emotion leaving me unable to reply. It's incredible, the way the words make me feel suddenly as if I can do anything. Like we make each other real, just by our believing. It's a silly, fanciful thing to think that I have to chuckle again, shaking my head, but my arms are warm and strong around you, holding you tight, and maybe it is true after all.

I know at least that I have never felt as real, as alive as I do tonight.

You are still smiling, but you look sleepy now, blinking at the fire, and after a minute you yawn, curling into my embrace.

"Tired?" I ask, and you give a slight nod, with a slow, languid blink like a cat. I look over in the darkness, but I can't quite see... "Does that hammock hold two?" I murmur in your ear, and you straighten, looking a bit surprised, as if you hadn't thought of that.

"Yes!" you assure me, tugging at my hand, and I let you pull me up, taking the blanket with us over to where the cradle of netting hangs swaying in the breeze. I spread the blanket over it and stretch out on top of it, and you crawl in after me and arrange us to your satisfaction, dragging the leftover blanket up around us.

It's surprisingly comfortable and warm, snuggled up with you and drifting with the slight wind as it rocks us in our cozy cocoon of blanket and body heat. It's amazing how easy it is to fall asleep when I am holding you, as if nothing is or can ever be wrong again.

We probably don't get more than a few hours of sleep, but the day has been worth it. The best day of my life without question, and I try to etch it in my memory, clear and perfect so that I never forget the way you looked today, the way this felt.

I wake to see the sunrise, just touching the edges of the sea. Liquid gold, and yet another kind of fire and light.

I smile and kiss the top of your head, watching as you stir and blink up at me, and then an answering sleepy smile spreads across your face.

 _Do you believe in forever?_

 _I believe in us._


End file.
